


Between The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea

by peterqpan



Series: Harringrove Works [3]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: A lot of them - Freeform, ACTUAL SEXYTIMES, Be good to yourselves y'all, Billy says mean shit about himself constantly, Billy's having a hard time, Billy's internalized homophobia, Happy Ending, Introspection practice, M/M, Now Steve knows EXACTLY what he wants to do, Slurs, Steve doesn't know what to do post-Nancy, Steve's internalized enthusiasm for sexy people, they work it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterqpan/pseuds/peterqpan
Summary: Billy gets Steve alone at the party, and can't resist kissing him.  Then it happens again...and again...and again.This is a lot of introspection practice, so it's moodier and has less dialogue than my usual stuff.  Still, as always, a happy ending!
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Harringrove Works [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003
Comments: 50
Kudos: 158





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zoffoli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoffoli/gifts).



> Let me know what you think of the writing in this one, I'm trying some new ideas!
> 
> Also this one is like 8k of makeouts, so I didn't do my usual "horizontal line indicates sexual stuff" bit. Let me know if you have a better idea for how to handle it!

The first time Billy kissed Steve at a party—the first ten, twenty, fifty times, but who was counting—it was on accident. Billy’d stumbled into four different rooms trying to find the bathroom, found some little kid’s room with Rainbow Brite posters and a dinosaur sled, found the door to the carport, and somehow found the washer and dryer _twice._

The room whirled around him as he threw another, identical door open, half-expecting the fucking laundry room again, and slammed full-body into _Steve Harrington,_ fixing his perfect hair at the sink. Billy’d had his jeans unzipped for the past five minutes, ready to unload his bladder in a perfect arc off the steps in the carport if he had to, and Harrington caught him by the biceps with both hands, staggering back. 

He looked so _uncomfortable_ Billy couldn’t help shoving him against the sink, breathing cheap beer in his face and yanking his dick out—partly to gross Harrington out, and partly to turn and use the toilet when Harrington shoved him away, or broke his jaw, or—Harrington’s gaze dropped to Billy’s lips.

He licked his own, staring right at Billy’s, and Billy could feel his jeans— _Harrington’s_ jeans, with Harrington’s _cock_ in them, hardening against Billy’s knuckles, and Billy still needed to piss, but his dick wasn’t into that anymore. It jerked in his hand as he breathed in Harrington’s hairspray, clean laundry, cologne, and some sweat from dancing. Even in his preppy clothes, Steve was a little scruffy from getting shoved around to music, and not shaving since that morning, and probably getting pressed back into a couple walls under the weight of another body.

Harrington looked _good_ messy. Billy felt the ache of his arms as Harrington’s fingers dug in, leaving bruises for later, he thought, and the thought of running his fingers over bruises _Harrington_ left on him made him buck his hips, pushing Harrington harder against the sink. He slid his thumb over the suddenly-wet head of his cock, his lips _almost_ against Harrington’s.

Billy pulled his eyes away from Harrington’s slightly-open mouth to glance up, the unease in his stomach reminding him he could end this night home, jacking off with his molars digging into his cheek as he told himself _silence, silence,_ pressing the bruises Harrington had left ever deeper into his flesh—or he could lean a bare inch closer, and know what Harrington’s mouth _felt_ like. His stomach roiled, as he glanced around to see the edge of the counter Harrington could slam his head into, the white knuckles Harrington could punch into his throat, and the door to the rest of the house Harrington could _yell_ through, telling everybody in the county Billy Hargrove was a fag. He felt his cock jump in his hand at the idea of Harrington _shoving_ him, _snarling_ at him, and Billy realized he was trembling. 

He opened his mouth to call Steve Harrington _something—_ probably a fag, that’s where his brain was—and then his heart thudded painfully in his chest, his blood pounding through his veins as Harrington _tilted his head,_ his mouth opening a little wider. Billy heard himself swallow the words back incoherently as he smushed in _closer,_ pressing their lips together. 

Harrington tasted like tequila.

Billy realized he’d been holding his breath when he made a weird shuddery noise inhaling, but he didn’t give a shit, for once, because Harrington was turning his head for a better angle. His lips were wet where he’d licked them, looking at _Billy,_ and Billy wasn’t gonna stop until Harrington _made_ him stop, licking into Harrington’s mouth, hot and wet and silken, and letting his teeth drag on Harrington’s lower lip before surging forward again. 

The snaps on Harrington’s back pockets squeaked, scraping across the surface of the sink. Harrington’s fingers tightened again, the pain grounding, but then he let go with one hand and brought it to Billy’s face—Billy flinched aside, banging their teeth together—and _steadied_ him, letting his fingertips brush the curls around Billy’s face, and cupping his jaw. 

_I know better,_ Billy thought, shoving down a hysterical giggle. _I know better than to feel like this,_ he told himself, but the things his father had whispered that made him climb out the window seeking _escape_ three hours earlier had left cracks in him, it felt like. 

He’d been in a rowboat once, when it was sinking. They’d known it was jacked up—the planks were warped and lifting, and half the nails were rusted out, but the water lapping at his toes was cool and refreshing in the hot sun of summer—and that’s what it felt like, in the bathroom with Harrington, with Harrington’s hands on his face, his bizarre _gentleness_ gushing in where Billy was broken. 

He knew better than to let it—let himself sink—but it felt so good, washing over him, and as with the rowboat, he knew he was in shallow waters—Harrington was going to shove him away well before he could be lured into the depths. 

Billy took a deep breath and leaned closer, letting himself sink.

He realized his hand was _wet,_ his precome dripping between his fingers, and he reached out with his free hand to tug at Harrington’s jeans. Harrington’s hips jerked, and Billy laughed against his mouth, yanking the buttons free and pulling Harrington’s dick out to grab both their cocks in his wet, slippery hand. 

Their open flies scraped his wrist and knuckle as he stroked both their dicks together, and with the weird angle of his hand wedged between them, the rough sawing and cold metal of Billy’s zipper, and Harrington’s white-knuckled fingers, digging ever tighter into Billy’s bicep, it _almost_ felt real.

“Crazy,” Harrington mumbled, yanking him closer by the back of the head. His dick pulsed as Billy moaned into his mouth. “This is crazy, it’s crazy—”

“Sh’up,” Billy hissed, pressing closer. “Can it, assho—” he started to say, but Steve let go of his head and grabbed Billy’s hand on their cocks, his thumb slid a rough callus over the slit at the top of Billy’s, and Billy _came_ just like that, his jizz spattering both their shirts. He realized he had Steve Harrington shoved against the counter, covered in come, at a party in the town they’d _moved_ to because Billy was a fucking fag slut, and his dad had given him one more chance.

Harrington said something as Billy froze, but Billy couldn’t hear him over the pounding in his ears, the acid rising in the back of his throat, and the memory of his dad’s hand around his throat, holding him against the wall as he tried to breathe and everything blurred with tears. 

“No,” he whispered, registering that Harrington’s cock was still in his hand, and going _soft,_ probably because Billy’d _come all over him,_ after slobbering all over his face, grabbing him _in the bathroom_ like the desperate drunk faggot he was. “Harrington, don’t tell anyone,” he said, trying to sound threatening, but Harrington _let go,_ took his hands off where he’d been holding Billy close the whole time, and Billy staggered back with a noise in his throat like he’d been punched. _Now I gotta swim back to shore,_ he reminded himself, laughing. 

Harrington wasn’t _completely_ soft, yet. “I still made you hard,” Billy told him, unable to look up and see what expression Harrington had. “I fucking—I made you hard, it’s not—it’s not _just_ me, you—you fucking say anything, I’ll say you—you _let_ me. You wanted to get your rocks off so bad you—you didn’t stop me—”

“This is _insane,”_ Harrington hissed back. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you—”

“Everything,” Billy laughed, watching the cock he’d _had his hand on,_ the prick belonging to the most popular prick in the whole school. “Bet I could get you hard again,” he whispered, flattened back against the wall. The towel bar dug into his leg, and he reached up with his clean hand and squeezed the bruises Harrington had left, holding him in place.

They felt real.

“What?!” Harrington snapped, but his dick twitched and firmed, and Billy snorted a laugh, sinking to his knees and shuffling forward to give it a long lick. Harrington made an indignant noise in his throat, but his hips jerked, so Billy took a shaky breath and pushed his lips around and over the hot, wet skin. 

He tasted his own come, but more importantly, Harrington’s sweat, and the _smell_ of him. He could feel _Steve Harrington_ hardening in his mouth, _because_ of his mouth, and he held his breath as he took smooth cock down his throat, remembering how it had felt, hearing ‘You’re _good_ at this.’

Maybe Harrington would get addicted, he thought, trying not to laugh and make himself choke. He pulled back a little to breathe, then pushed himself again, eyes watering as he swallowed around Harrington’s girth, trying to keep his gags quiet. 

Harrington shifted, and Billy inhaled too loudly, waiting for the blow—but when Harrington’s hand came, it sat awkwardly against his hair, without pressing. Billy pushed himself harder, feeling the spit drip down his chin, and gasping with the short thrusts Harrington couldn’t control, waiting to be told it was good. Harrington didn’t say anything, and Billy looked up at him as best he could, to see he had his eyes shut tight.

Billy swallowed around him a few times, listening to him repress grunts, and then hummed, running his tongue along the veiny flesh on the underside of Harrington’s dick. Harrington came down his throat without warning, and Billy jerked back, swallowing and coughing. 

Harrington stared down—not at Billy, more at his shiny wet cock, and his jizz-covered t-shirt, and Billy licked his lips, rubbing his mouth with his wrist. 

He opened his mouth to say _don’t fucking tell anyone,_ but no sound came out, and he cleared his throat, swallowing.

Harrington tucked his dick away, and yanked his shirt off, throwing it in the trash. He scrabbled at his hair in the mirror, and then stumbled over Billy, yanking the door open and stalking out with a muttered, “This is _insane.”_

Billy realized he’d have to talk to him _again,_ convince him to keep Billy’s wrongness a secret. He wiped the spit off his throat, watching it shine on his hand in the dim light from the streetlamps, and told himself it had _happened—_ he hadn’t just—he hadn’t _only_ pressed himself against the prettiest boy in school, panting all over him like a pussy. Harrington had _held_ him there. Steve Harrington had been drunk, and—bored, maybe, Billy thought, or frustrated, or rebellious enough to use what Billy offered, and that meant he’d wanted _something,_ and Billy’d let him take it, it didn’t—Billy hadn’t imagined that. Harrington had come down his throat, eyes shut tight, admittedly, pretending Billy’s mouth was anything else, but he hadn’t _stopped_ him, or—or broken his jaw, or called the police.

 _God,_ Billy thought, staggering to his feet, _don’t let him be calling the police._ The bruises on his arms twinged as he moved, and his throat ached as he stared in the mirror, wondering what his dad would do, if he found out how Billy’d used his last chance. 

Finally, Billy kicked up the toilet seat. He was emptying his bladder when two more people crashed in—neither one Harrington—and he raised his eyebrows as they swore and stumbled back out.

He wondered whether he’d be able to hang on to the memory of Harrington holding him close, once the bruises had faded, and finally, his stomach clenching, reached in the trash and retrieved Harrington’s shirt, wadding it up in one hand to try and sneak through the party. _It happened,_ he told himself. _He grabbed me first._

It smelled like jizz and sweat, but also _Harrington._

The second time Billy kissed Harrington in a bathroom it was mostly on purpose—he’d just scored one off Tommy, in the weird game they had going of “Who’s the biggest asshole,” Carol had handed him Tommy’s drink, which was nasty, but tasted of victory, and Steve Harrington was at the party _alone_ and hadn’t hooked up with _anyone,_ lingering along the sidelines like a fucking wallflower.

When Billy saw him sigh, and dump his drink in the sink, he followed him down the hallway and pressed all up behind him as he struggled drunkenly with the janky doorknob. Billy wondered—in passing—why the hell he was alone, and whether Harrington had cracks in his hull too—whether he was letting himself take stupid risks to feel the soothing water lapping at his toes, or whether the king of Hawkins High was too bouyant to sink into temptation. Whether Billy _was_ tempting, at all. 

“Hey,” Billy whispered, breathing across Harrington’s ear and neck. “Bet I could get you hard again.”

“What,” Harrington’s laugh didn’t sound happy, but he didn’t sound pissed either, so Billy pushed him inside, locking the door behind them. He wasn’t sure he’d remembered to lock the door the first time, but the shiver up his back was half satisfaction, imagining somebody seeing Harrington fucking _his_ mouth. Imagining them knowing Steve Harrington grabbed _Billy,_ when he wanted a cocksucker. Imagining him digging bruises into Billy’s arm again, throwing him down to the ground as he whispered, _“Mine.”_

“How about a warm thanks for not telling anyone,” Billy muttered against Harrington’s mouth, and Harrington was _still_ for a moment that stretched like a slow-motion death in a movie before the asshole opened his mouth and finally _kissed_ him, pulling Billy in with one hand on the back of his head and neck, and the other sliding under Billy’s jacket, around his side and up his lower back. 

_Jesus,_ Billy thought, stalling out for a second as his heart thudded in his chest and his blood rushed in his ears. He shook it off, and pressed closer—how many times, he thought, was he going to have his lips on _Steve Harrington?_ Missing the fractions of seconds he _had_ was already criminal. He licked the taste of orange vodka off his lips. “Anything you want,” he whispered dizzily. “You—you want to fuck my face again?” 

It was dumb to keep running the risk—dumb as he was as a kid, taking the rowboat out to nearly drown, and dumb now, trying to keep Steve Harrington looking at him, when he could still hear his dad’s voice telling him to _be better._

“S’crazy,” Steve mumbled back, then pushed _away,_ and Billy staggered, raising his hands instinctively, and swallowing down whatever imaginary thing it was that always lodged in his throat when he fucked up.

“You came,” he said, his voice coming out thin. “You _fucking jizzed in my mouth,_ asswipe. _You_ just kissed _me,_ I didn’t start—don’t pretend you—”

“Christ,” Harrington groaned, rubbing his face. “Don’t flip your shit, put your hands down. ‘M’not gonna _tell_ anyone, christ.”

Billy nodded, relaxing enough to laugh, and slide his fingers down his sweaty chest. “‘Course you aren’t.”

Harrington’s gaze followed his hand, and then he reached out and grabbed Billy’s wrist, and instead of pushing him down to the ground, he pulled him close, _again—_ by the jacket this time, and a hand around Billy’s back, instead of leaving bruises. 

He wondered whether Harrington was too sober, or too drunk, or too lonesome to bruise him this time—the old ones were still there, and Billy caught himself hoping they’d be renewed, convincing him every time he flexed that Steve Harrington had held him within kissing range. His voice was hoarse as he mumbled, “How’re you gonna get your cock sucked at every party, letting the cocksucker get lynched.” 

“Shut up, god,” Harrington hissed. “So drunk I’m kissing _you_ again…” he said against Billy’s hair, sliding his thumb up to lift Billy’s jaw into a kiss.

Billy let his eyes close, stuffing his insults back down his throat to make a whining grunt into Harrington’s mouth. He sounded _needy,_ he realized, grabbing at the front of Harrington’s pants half in hopes of getting his mouth on Harrington’s cock, and feel him straining again, and half to steady himself as _the most popular boy in school_ ran his nails gently up and down where Billy’s hair covered his neck. “You can just bruise me up, your majesty,” Billy whispered, and Harrington shoved him back. “Pretend ‘m a pinata,” Billy laughed. “Hit me ‘til candy falls out.”

“I don’t—I don’t do shit like that,” Steve said, narrowing his eyes.

“Still got the bruises from last time,” Billy told him, leaning close, and rubbing his bicep with his thumb. “Look at them in the shower sometimes while I jack off,” he grinned, watching to see Harrington wince. “Fucking _gross,_ right—”

“I left _bruises?!”_ Steve yanked at Billy’s jacket, tugging it down his shoulders until Billy’s arms were half-bound by it, and he couldn’t stop laughing, held by Steve Harrington in an off-the-shoulder jacket. Steve pored over Billy’s bared shoulders and neck, and then pressed at the greening fingermarks.

Billy sucked in a breath, letting his eyes close. “Give me ‘em again, Harrington—”

“Shut up, no,” Harrington whispered. His fingers trailed up Billy’s shoulder, and along his collarbones. “Uh. Why do—why do you _want_ that.” He sounded vaguely pissed off, or disgusted, or something, and Billy didn’t open his eyes.

“What the hell else have I got—” he growled, trying not to _lean in._ “How—how am I supposed to know you—you fucking—you _let_ me—”

“Wait,” Harrington paused, for words probably, because his fingers were busy cranking up the heat in Billy’s veins, _petting_ along the bared skin of Billy’s neck and shoulders, up the vein in the side of his neck, under his ear, and down again to where his collarbone had a lump you could feel, from being broken. “Wait, you want, like...evidence?”

“Shut up, dipshit,” Billy panted, shivering, and then Harrington fixed his mouth where his thumb had been, sucking and biting under Billy’s ear, and Billy moaned. He knocked Harrington back into the sink again, leaning his whole weight on him, and Harrington laughed, holding him by the stiff jean jacket he’d shoved down around Billy’s elbows so his arms could barely move. 

Billy squirmed, a little, feeling the heat _flame_ through his skin at Steve Harrington’s enthusiasm for giving him hickies—but he started to squirm loose, so he held still, muttering “...asshole.” It came out as a weird rasp, and Harrington snorted, blowing a fart noise where he’d been scraping Billy’s skin through his teeth. Billy shivered anyway, at Harrington’s breath across his wet skin.

“This what you want, Hargrove?” Harrington asked, breathing all over his neck to make Billy whine, and Billy bit his lips, unwilling to admit he was letting himself sink as the water closed over his head. Harrington felt so _good,_ was all, and Billy was flawed, cracked where he should have been stronger, just swaying on his feet, pretending he couldn’t get away from King Steve Harrington _holding his jacket._

He stopped arguing—mostly. He let Harrington yank him in and lick into his mouth, but he was still mumbling shit like “What’re you even doing, Harrington,” and “—don’t _fuck_ with me, just _do_ it—”, and “Jesus, just—hit me already,” against Harrington’s mouth, and Harrington would go still for a second, and do something _weird as shit—_ even _weirder_ as shit, Billy corrected, stuttering over a laugh as Harrington ran warm callused fingers up his ribs, and Billy shivered. 

“Sssh,” Harrington told him, lifting Billy’s chin for another round of soft, drunken kisses, and Billy realized he was just whispering a meaningless string of expletives— _shit fuck hell damn bitch hell christ’s ass—_ and Harrington was _laughing,_ his mouth quirked as he kissed all _lingering,_ like he had all the time in the world, and he’d decided to use it to make Billy’s whole body _melt_ while his idiot head spun off his neck and and rolled away.

“You don’t have to be like this,” he told Harrington honestly, feeling like Harrington’s fingers got deeper hooked in some soft part of Billy’s insides every time he slid past Billy’s guarding arms and stroked his thumb up and down Billy’s lower back, or brushed a hand up the side of his face. _I’m sinking too fast,_ he realized, wondering when he’d hit the bottom.

It was going to _hurt_ when Harrington sobered up and stopped, Billy realized—once his brain wasn’t busy reeling, he was going to remember this was some big fucking _joke,_ and Billy Goddamn Hargrove wasn’t the kind of person people kissed like this. As he turned his head aside, Harrington bit softly at the tenderized skin where Billy’s jaw met his neck and ear, letting his breath and tongue warm Billy’s skin, and Billy _whined_ deep in his throat.

The room swayed, and Billy realized Harrington’d _caught_ him, wrapping both arms around him as Billy’s legs bent. 

“Jesus, you’re easy,” Harrington whispered, and Billy flinched.

“Fuck you,” he hissed, then laughed. “Yeah,” he mumbled, his face pressed against Harrington’s shoulder, breathing in the smells of clean laundry, shampoo, and a day of living. “Yeah, you fucking—” Billy cleared his throat, pulling back. He turned away, staggering, into the wall. “You fucking knew that already. I was just—I was just gonna blow you for—for not—telling people I’m.” He laughed again, his eyes burning. “Now you know why we fucking...moved here. I got one more chance, Harrington, I’m supposed to—I’m supposed to be _better,_ shit. Don’t—don’t fuck this up for—don’t make me get the _stick_ out instead of the carrot, asswipe—”

“Thought I already met the stick,” Harrington said, snickering. “Jizzed in my _hand.”_ He thumped his hips against Billy, who bared his teeth in a grin at the proof Harrington was as turned on as he was. 

Billy ran his fingers down the hard line in Harrington’s jeans. “The stick is my _fists,_ moron,” he whispered. “You tell on me and I’ll cave in your skull. You—you tell _anyone_ I’m—I’m like this, I’ll fucking—I’ll kill you—”

“I could kick your ass,” Harrington mumbled, sounding a little petulant, then _smug_ as he bit along the tenderized skin where Billy’s neck met his shoulder, and Billy moaned, rocking his hips against Harrington’s, and then jerking back. Harrington laughed. “I could hurt you back,” he whispered, and Billy flinched, shuddering under warm breath. 

“What,” Billy muttered, then cleared his throat, trying in earnest to squirm out of the jacket so he could move his arms, but Harrington held him fast. His heart pounded, the noise of the ocean rising in his ears. “What the hell does that mean, let—let me fucking _go,_ get your _hands_ off me—”

“I heard your music,” Harrington said, randomly, letting go of Billy’s jacket, but catching his fingers and holding them.

Billy set his jaw. “What the fu—”

 _“Everybody_ hears your music,” Harrington continued, like he was making _sense,_ and Billy wondered whether maybe Harrington _was_ the one making sense, and Billy was just too drunk, too horny, and too much of a terrified pussy to parse words.

“Everybody hears my music?” he repeated, hesitant. He tugged at his hand, and Harrington let go. _Just punch him,_ Billy told himself. _Be quicker on the draw._ He couldn’t make himself move, and he was fuzzy with drink, and the shivers Harrington gave him every time his fingers stroked along Billy’s sides.

 _He’s going to hurt you,_ he told himself, frozen the way he did at home, his hearing eclipsed by white noise like a TV with no channels—except Harrington’s fingers were _gentle_ on his back and face, and the voice against his ear sounded teasing and warm. _I’m so drunk,_ he thought, knowing he hadn’t had that much to drink, and he was sinking ever deeper. “The hell are you talking about?”

“You ready? Gonna drop a bomb on you,” Harrington whispered against his ear, and Billy flinched, bracing himself, telling himself he could take—“...Cyndi Lauper is better,” Harrington hissed, and Billy’s mantra of _just take the hit, don’t be a fucking pussy, hit him back_ turned into indignant rage.

 _“What._ You’re _deaf,_ Harringto—” he _mmf_ ed as Harrington yanked his chin around and laid another kiss on him, making him lose his train of thought.

“I’ll keep your secret,” Harrington said, slurring a little. “Jesus, who would I even tell—” He sidled around Billy to grab his face, as Billy took a shuddery breath of relief, closed his eyes, and leaned into Harrington’s hands. 

“Christ,” Billy heard himself mumble.

“But you’re lying, right?” Harrington asked. “You just wanted to blow me.”

Billy winced, trying to swallow back his flood of arguments. They hurt his throat, like the words had corners. “You _came in my mouth,”_ he hissed, unable to help himself. “You liked it too, you didn’t—you didn’t say anything,” he took a shaky breath, feeling his eyes sting. _Fuck, not now,_ he told his tear ducts, and his lungs, which had started panting against his will. _Fuck off._ “You didn’t say anything, but you—it felt _good,_ you—you fucking _came down my throat—”_

“Shit,” Harrington breathed, watching him _melt down_ like they were both on the playground, and Billy’d tried to be _normal,_ again. Tried to remember not to kiss a boy, no matter how good it felt. Somebody was always _too nice_ to fucking _Billy Hargrove,_ and he lost his _goddamn mind_ and leaned into it, and got _hit._

He tried not to let Harrington’s touch make him forget the bruises his dad had left. “I’m sorry,” Billy grated out. “Shut me the fuck up, Harrington. Yeah,” he laughed, wishing there was something heavy to throw, just for the release of feeling something break that wasn’t him. “I fucking—I wanted to blow you. Wanted you to fuck my face. I wanted to kneel at your feet like a fucking _dog.”_

“It’s okay,” Harrington told him, and Billy laughed harder, his eyes spilling over as he shoved away.

“Fuck you, Harrington,” he said, and slammed out, then stood in the hallway, wondering where he was supposed to _go,_ with snot and tears dripping down his face, now he’d let himself sink, and there he was with no air in his lungs, _stupid fucking cunt_ Billy Hargrove. “Fuck, damn it,” he whispered, dropping to a crouch to bury his face in his sleeves, and then the door creaked open again into his butt.

“Hargrove. Billy,” Harrington whispered, and Billy reached behind him to slam it shut again. 

He was _tired,_ was all. In California he’d had places to _go,_ idiots who’d let him sweet talk a night on their couch, or their bed, and here he was in bugfuck nowhere, with his father breathing down his neck. The thought reminded him he’d have to sneak back in, and his dad would probably be waiting. _“Fuck_ you, Harrington!” he muttered, and then when the door opened again, “Stay in there!”

Steve Harrington, most popular boy in school and annoying shithead, started _laughing._ “At least let me _out,”_ he hissed through the door. “You said I’d get a blowjob! I didn’t even get one!”

“Go away,” Billy muttered, feeling his cheeks heat as his dick twitched.

“I can’t!” Harrington said, snickering, and if that wasn’t annoying enough, he nearly tipped Billy over forcing most of his face through the door to go “Pthbbbbt!”

“Die in a fire,” Billy sighed, wiping his eyes, and Harrington slid a hand out, startling Billy in his peripheral vision before squeezing his shoulder.

“Get back in here,” Harrington hissed. “Come on.”

Billy bit his lip, wishing he’d had more to drink. Finally, he sighed and stood, moving out of the way so Harrington could open the door.

“Get _in_ here,” Harrington said, dragging him in by the sleeve of his jacket. “Okay. What the _hell,_ man.” Billy shrugged, but Harrington shook him by the shoulders. “No, come on, dude, _fuck._ What the hell _was_ that.”

“I’m queer,” Billy told him, shrugging. His voice felt harsh in his throat. 

“Yeah,” agreed Harrington, his eyes narrowed. “I figured.”

“Fucking...fag kissed you,” Billy rasped, swallowing hard. “Sucked you off.”

“Yeah, I was there,” Harrington nodded, and Billy nodded back, avoiding his gaze.

“Sorry,” Billy whispered, and he was _so_ tired, and so _drunk,_ that all the words he’d been shoving down climbed back up his throat. “I’m such _shit,_ christ.”

“Jesus,” Harrington said again, and Billy leaned back against the sink, trying to breathe.

“Sorry,” he said again, shrugging, and taking a deep shuddering breath. “You make me feel like I’m fucking drowning,” he laughed. “All my oxygen’s gone, ocean closing right over my head—”

“Shit,” Harrington said again, lifting his hands, and looking weirdly helpless when Billy flinched back like a pussy.

“Go _ahead,”_ Billy told him, thickly, and laughed. “Don’t pull back, fucking...pussy. Bruise me up again, I _want_ it, I’m _sor—”_

“Stop saying sorry,” Harrington told him, and yanked him close again like he had when Billy’s legs had given out in some kind of _queer bliss_ from kisses to the neck. 

“Oof,” Billy whispered, staring at the wall over Harrington’s shoulder. “What—what’re you _doing,_ Harrington.”

“M’going ahead,” Harrington said dryly, and Billy snorted. “You’re not drowning,” he whispered, and Billy snorted. “You’re not, I—I’m a good swimmer, okay.”

“You’ll hold me up?” Billy mumbled, sighing against Harrington's collarbone. His face was hot.

“Keep a life jacket on you,” Harrington said, and Billy laughed.

“You’re so annoying,” he whispered, letting his head lower to nuzzle into Harrington’s neck—partly because of Harrington’s hand pulling him in, but mostly because he couldn’t resist any longer. He breathed in Harrington’s smell, wondering why the most popular boy in school was _letting_ him, and then figuring that was why he was popular—he was patient with bullshit, maybe. Maybe Harrington always did shit like this. Maybe Tommy Hagen had cried in his shoulder too. Harrington squeezed him tighter, and Billy’s eyes stung. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	2. Chapter 2

Every time Harrington saw Billy at school, he waved, and Billy waggled his tongue at him, or bumped shoulders, or flipped him off with a grin. 

Billy didn’t push his luck—didn’t try and corner him to talk, or linger too close, but when Tommy asked him about a party the very next night, he was there so early he had to help drunk-proof the house.

Steve Harrington showed up to the party with Nancy Wheeler, and Billy did three separate keg stands trying to get his attention, then stalked out and keyed his car. He was in the middle of carving “Harrington is a pussy” in the paint of the door when Harrington’s voice said, “What the hell are you _ doing,”  _ and Billy turned, lighting a cigarette, and baring his teeth. 

“What’s it look like, pretty boy?” he asked, blowing smoke out in a plume, and Harrington squinted at the car. 

“...what you got against Linda Berriman?” he asked, sounding bewildered, and Billy froze, then slowly turned to regard the car.

“...this isn’t your _ fucking car,”  _ he hissed, half tempted to break the _ windshield,  _ and then Harrington grabbed him around the waist from behind, dragging him backwards so Billy’s boots drug in the gravel. 

“Go to hell!” Billy yelled, kicking, and Steve yanked one of his arms away—Billy grabbed the other one, not _ about  _ to get dropped on his ass—then wrapped it around Billy’s upper arms, so he couldn’t move. 

“Jesus,” Harrington whispered, dragging him over to Harrington’s _ actual  _ car—they weren’t even the same _ color,  _ really, and Billy roared in fury—before opening the passenger door, and tipping him in. “Siddown,” he sighed. “The hell is _ with  _ you tonight?”

“Same as always,” Billy grinned back joylessly, taking a drag on his cigarette, then snarled, “I’m fucking crazy, right? You don’t _ fucking  _ want me, you never _ fucking wanted me—” And you dropped me when you were done,  _ he didn’t say, _ and I cracked wide open, and the water’s rushing in— _

Harrington was blurry through the salt water, his face wobbling as he ran his thumbs under Billy’s eyes, wiping wetness across his cheeks, and then he had warm hands on Billy’s face, and they were kissing. Billy let his mouth fall open for Harrington, and his eyes fall closed. 

Somebody shouted something, and Harrington jerked away, his head up like a twitchy little bird as Billy panted, watching him, and wiping his eyes. 

“Shit,” Harrington muttered, frowning around. “Talk to me.”

“You brought a date,” Billy whispered, stomping right out on creaky boards again for Steve Harrington, hungry for the feeling of the water. “You ignored me the whole goddamn time—”

“She just needed a ride! You were doing _ keg stands,”  _ Harrington rolled his eyes, and Billy frowned, watching his face. “...you were kinda _ busy?”  _ Harrington tried again, and Billy snorted. Harrington leaned back, narrowing his eyes, then clapped, smirking. “You were trying to get my _ attention!” _

“Go to hell,” Billy sighed. 

“Jesus, c’mere,” Steve sighed, grabbing him by the sleeve, and pulling him along. “You usually go off and sit on the pot, I kept lurking around the bathroom for you, but you just stalked up, flexed at me, and did another _ kegstand—”  _ he cut off, hauling Billy around the side of the lit-up party house into a shadow between two bushes. “I was watching,” he whispered, pressing Billy back against the wall, and leaning so close his breath tickled Billy’s mustache. “Watching your shirt slide down and show your abs. Watching your sweaty goddamn abs, like, _ gleaming  _ in the light over the stove.”

Billy snorted and yanked him into a kiss, sighing, and Harrington shoved away, coughing and _ laughing.  _

“Holy shit, asshole,” he hissed, pounding his chest. “What the fuck, don’t blow _ smoke in my mouth.” _

“Why not,” Billy asked, snickering, and wiping his eyes. “That was _ fucking hilarious,  _ jesus. Sorry, I’m sorry. Get over here.”

“No way,” Harrington said, backing away, and Billy rolled his eyes, then took a last drag on his cigarette, and stomped it out underfoot. 

“Come here, I didn’t mean to,” he whispered into the dark. _ “Harrington.” _ He was just about to start yelling again when he startled at a hand on his sleeve, and Harrington’s quiet laugh. Billy licked his lips, breathless. “Kiss me again.”

“Yeah,” Harrington whispered back, and put both arms around him, squeezing him tight as he licked into Billy’s mouth, catching his mustache in the dark, and spitting to the side. “Bleah, I licked your _ lip hair.” _

“You’re so romantic,” Billy said dryly.

“Kissed you somewhere that wasn’t the shitter, finally,” Harrington said brightly, and Billy snorted a laugh, then sniffed the air.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “Smells like somebody did some partying back here.”

“Oh shit,” Steve whispered, leaning in open mouthed and warm, kissing his face, and laughing. “Dammit. Come on.”

They ended up pulled off the road in Harrington’s car that time, Billy’s mouth on Harrington’s dick as he sat sideways on the back seat, and Billy knelt between his legs. “Sorry I didn’t say anything,” Harrington rambled. “Christ, your _ mouth.  _ Jesus. I’m not good at saying shit, Hargrove, you’re so—you’re so much better at—at mouth—things—holy _ crap, Billy.” _

Billy came in his own hand, listening to Harrington, tasting Harrington in the back of his throat, and feeling urgent fingers scrape up the back of his neck, but Harrington still yanked him closer, after, reaching down clumsily to check. “Sure like your cock,” Billy confessed, mouth quirking, and Harrington didn’t throw him out of the car. They laid there for hours, and Harrington told him about the time _ he’d  _ kissed someone he wasn’t supposed to on the playground, and got thumped upside the head. 

“She was really tough,” he said dreamily, and Billy shivered somewhere internally at the pronoun, forcing a laugh. “Sorry you didn’t kiss _ me  _ on the playground,” Harrington continued, and Billy tried to snort and laugh at the same time, and ended up coughing hard for nearly a minute, with Harrington laughing, and rubbing his back. Just when Billy was nearly breathing again, wiping his eyes, Harrington couldn’t leave well enough alone. “We coulda made out underneath the jungle gym thing,” he said hopefully. “It was by where you picked flowers.”

“Now you want flowers,” Billy scoffed, letting Harrington pull him back so Billy’s head was tucked against Harrington’s chest, looking up at his face. 

“Nah, they were just dandelions,” Harrington shrugged. He kept rubbing the ridge of bone from Billy’s forehead around his eye to his cheekbone, and Billy leaned into it, then stiffened at the casual question, “—that a black eye?”

“What,” Billy asked.

“I mean, it’s mostly healed up,” Harrington leaned over Billy’s head so their noses were almost touching, squinting in the darkness. “What happened?”

Billy realized Harrington still didn’t know how shitty Billy Hargrove _ was,  _ what measures his own father had had to take _.  _ “Shit,” he whispered, tensing. “Harrington—”

“...yeah?” Harrington smacked a kiss on his nose, and Billy blinked up at him, with no idea what he’d been going to say.

“...I don’t know,” he confessed, and Harrington grinned, and kissed his face all over—the kinds of kisses that shouldn’t have been sexy at all, but warm, and soft, and Billy felt a wash of nauseous guilt as his blood heated at the brush of Harrington’s lips against his eyebrows. “You—you’re gonna get me hard again,” he whispered, squirming under Harrington’s weirdly wholesome onslaught.

“Oh no, golly gee,” Harrington told him, and Billy snickered, letting himself arc up, and writhe under Harrington’s mouth. 

He slid out from under Billy, crouching in the tiny space between the front and back seats to mouth along Billy’s naked chest, and unzip Billy’s fly. Billy had a bizarre, fleeting thought that _ Harrington  _ intended to get his mouth on _ Billy’s  _ cock, and yanked him back for more kisses, before yelping with surprise as Harrington yanked at his zipper, and got a cold hand around his dick. 

Billy swore, instinctively trying to wriggle away, and slid half out of his jacket as Harrington grabbed it, and went still. The roof of the car pressed against Billy’s hair, and he had to hold his head at a weird angle.

“What the hell is that,” Harrington breathed.

“It’s my _ dick,  _ dickless,” Billy retorted, squinting at Harrington’s face in the dim light. 

“No, the—” Harrington ran his fingers over the greening bruises on Billy’s forearm, and Billy was face-first on the kitchen counter again, his arm twisted behind his back. “Shit,” he heard Harrington say, distantly, and then _ warmth  _ and _ suction  _ around his prick, and he gasped, his lungs filling fully as he stared at the roof of the car. 

“Fuck,” Billy whispered.

“Did that help?” Harrington asked, and Billy lost his shit laughing at _ blowjob first aid  _ as Harrington rolled his eyes, and slid his hot tongue around Billy’s cock again. 

The fourth time, it was in the school showers. Billy was used to Steve’s sly grin, by that point—he knew all he needed to do was make sure they wouldn’t get caught, and Steve Harrington would bare everything and let Billy’s mouth wander where it would, take Billy’s prick on his tongue, or hold Billy at a moment’s notice, and tell him dumb stories until he could stand and breathe on his own. 

It didn’t feel real—not even as real as the bruises, or the filthy t-shirt shoved under Billy’s pillow—but for now, Billy was content living in the saccharine pastels of a Disney animated sequence, and in no hurry to get back to his shitty live-action life. He edged close during practise, whispering in Harrington’s ear. “You free after this?” he asked, and Harrington flashed a bright smile before blinking and shoving Billy’s head out of the way of the basketball. 

“Watch it, asshole,” he yelled at Tommy Hagan, who scowled.

Billy waited until after practise, volunteering them for cleanup, and then sweeping the gym, until Harrington was staring at him whenever the coach wasn’t looking, and twice, flipping him off. 

“So the doors will lock automatically, after we shower,” Billy said aloud to the coach, who nodded, waving on her way out. 

Harrington still looked annoyed, slamming his shoes around in his locker. “You coulda said you just wanted to _ clean,  _ I thought—”

“Did you think I wanted a _ date,”  _ Billy asked his own locker, unable to look over at Harrington’s expression, even as a joke. “Take you somewhere nice.”

“Nah,” Harrington sighed. “I didn’t think you were, like, wanting suit and tie. French food. Wine.” He sounded resigned, and Billy wondered whether he liked that kind of thing. It wasn’t hard to picture him putting a tie on for Wheeler, and picking her up with a bunch of red roses dotted with baby’s breath, and a wider, more bashful smile than he’d ever put on for Billy Hargrove, but it _ was  _ hard to picture Steve Harrington considering a wine list, or understanding the menu at all. 

It might be fun, actually, Billy thought, if two men could date. He’d pick Harrington up at the door, and kiss him, he thought. Wear a nice jacket. Sit Harrington down and order _ for  _ him, then tell him an hour in he was eating snails. 

If they _ were  _ dating, like people who dated, Billy thought with a snort. 

“I just thought, y’know,” Harrington said, and Billy looked over to see him shrug, “—maybe you wanted to—to come over, or something. Not just...not just at a party, or. Or parked at night. Like, plan something, you know.”

“Plan what?” Billy asked, curious and a little smug, as he grabbed his towel and soap and headed for the showers. 

“Nothing,” Harrington sighed, and _ yelped,  _ when he came around the corner and Billy pressed their naked bodies together against the wall, kissing across Harrington’s collarbones, and up the side of his neck to his mouth. “Wha— _ Hargrove,  _ what—”

It was the first time Billy’d gotten to really _ look  _ at Harrington naked—the first time he hadn’t had to think about being caught—and he lingered, reaching behind him to crank on the water, and licking the first spray of it up Harrington’s chest. “Coach left us alone,” he whispered, letting his hands slip down Harrington’s torso in the slickness of the hot water. “Let me soap you up, huh?”

“You _ had  _ a plan!” Steve whispered back, and Billy couldn’t suppress a snigger as he leaned in to kiss Harrington’s appealingly startled grin. 

“You really thought I wanted to clean the gym?” he whispered, relishing Harrington’s soapy muscles under his fingers, and his groan as their cocks slid together. 

“I don’t know what you want,” Harrington mumbled, then snorted and corrected, “Nah, I do, I know what you want—”

“What could it be,” Billy whispered, pressing sloppy kisses up Harrington’s neck to feel him shiver. 

“Your hands all over me,” Harrington said, ruining Billy’s seduction by _ laughing,  _ and raspberrying against his neck with a loud wet PTHBBBBBBT. “You want me,” he laughed, pressing kisses over Billy’s entire face. “God,” he whispered, running his thumb along Billy’s jaw, “—you _...like  _ me. So much.” 

If he hadn’t looked so...open, Billy’d have argued, but Harrington’s cheeks were red, his smile uncertain, so Billy just groaned. “Yeah,” he admitted. He decided _ not  _ to mention the t-shirt he stole out of the trash, or the way he let the tips of his fingers stroke the soft cotton, gripping it as he jacked himself in bed. “Yeah,” Billy laughed, his throat trying to close as he bared his teeth. “—this fag fucking...l-loves you. Every—every goddamn— _ molecule,  _ asshole.”

“All of them,” Harrington breathed, pulling Billy closer. “God. J-jesus.” He snorted, shaking his head. “Finally all this—all my goddamn luck showed up.”

“What?!” Billy snorted, abruptly too warm with Harrington’s thumb stroking his cheekbone. He bit back the urge to tell Harrington to fuck off, took a deep breath, and reminded himself Steve Harrington, eternal dweeb, regretted not getting flowers and a kiss from him under the jungle gym as kids. “I’m not _ good luck,  _ Harrington—”

“You got all the love for me everybody else, um, they didn’t. Uh, the love nobody else...got. You know.” Harrington smiled, a little tensely.

“Wait, I got the—all the love you—your parents and everybody,” Billy said, narrowing his eyes. “Nobody else ever—”

“Just a joke,” Steve laughed, clearing his throat. “I was just kidding, jesus—”

“No, hang on,” Billy poked him in the chest, hissing, “—that’s not _ fair,  _ you— _ asswipe.  _ That explains a _ lot,  _ actually, I get all the love your parents didn’t deliver, and what, you-your friends, your pets, your goddamn godparents—”

Steve was snickering, beaming at him, and Billy pinched his cheeks, growling.

“That’s fucked up! You dump me and I’ll still be loving you for like _ sixty people,  _ asshole, I’ll never get through all that on top of my own _ bullshit— _ I’m never getting over that—”

“Next time don’t sign for all those packages,” Steve told him, shaking his head, and Billy punched him in the stomach, but not very hard.

“...just let it all pile up on the porch…?” Billy sighed, as Steve wheezed into his shoulder, sniggering. 

“Leave them at the mail depot,” Harrington muttered, squeezing their naked bodies together, and Billy was both relieved and _ impatient  _ to feel that they were just as rock-hard as each other. “Stuck with me now. Coulda been _ mail  _ bombs.”

Billy lost it snickering, muffling his face in Harrington’s neck, and kissing his jaw.

“What?!” Harrington asked, huffing. “It’s not _ that  _ dumb, it’s a _ joke—” _

“Love bombs,” Billy whispered, and Harrington lost it too, cackling and groaning. 

“Shut up, you _ suck.” _

“Hell yeah I do,” Billy hummed against his neck, and Harrington laughed harder, pushing his head. 

He was careful even about that, not pushing him _ away,  _ or hard enough that he might lose his balance. Billy squeezed him tighter, relishing the sensation of being someone to treat _ gently.  _

Of course Harrington noticed, as he always did, when Billy’s fingers tightened a _ little  _ too much, and he buried his head just that _ little  _ too long. “Hate to break it to you, actually,” he whispered, and his fingers trailing under Billy’s shoulder blades kept Billy from tensing. “You don’t suck,” he whispered, soft in Billy’s ear, and Billy laughed. “...I’m glad it all went to you,” Steve whispered, then snorted a laugh. “If somebody had to get stuck with me, I’m glad it it was you, even—even if you wish you hadn’t—”

“Shut up, just make it worth my while,” Billy hissed back, and Steve laughed harder, pulling him down on the floor, their legs and knees scraping like they were being scoured with steel wool on the non-skid surface. 

“Shit, ow,” Steve mumbled into his mouth, scrambling away to return with a towel he tossed on the ground.

Billy crawled onto it, sliding an arm around Steve’s waist, and hauling him along. Steve swung a knee over him, squishing him to the ground in a flurry of _kisses,_ and _touching._ He lingered over the bruises, but didn’t ask, pinning Billy so he couldn’t do anything but laugh, and squirm, and _yell_ as Steve Harrington got his mouth on the cock of Billy Hargrove, and _enjoyed_ himself. 

Afterwards, they got pizza and sat in the car, and Harrington told Billy a _ wild  _ story about the past year with Wheeler, and a trailer fire, and a kid that came back from the dead.

Billy believed every word.

The fifth—or sixth?!—time they kissed in a bathroom, they’d been parked in the woods, and after giving Billy a whole line of hot, breathy hickies from his ear, along his collarbones, and down to his nipple, Harrington had gotten hungry for more than sex. 

“My house is right by here,” he whispered, and Billy only yanked him back into his arms for twenty more minutes before agreeing to drop him off.

“Shoulda brought food,” Billy muttered, pulling away to climb out of the back, and wiping his face. “Didn’t even suck you off, yet.”

“Come back with me,” Harrington suggested, and Billy stilled, searching his face.

“You...what’s that mean?” he asked. “I mean, you...your parents home? They gonna…” he raised his eyebrows. “They’re gonna think you took up with a _ bad crowd.” _

Harrington rolled his eyes. “Tommy’s a _ bad crowd.  _ Come on.”

When they got to the house, Harrington waved him back. “Lemme scout first,” he whispered, smiling, but he looked serious, so Billy waved him on, lighting a cigarette to pace around with. Moments later, Harrington poked his head back out. “Nobody’s home,” he called. “Come look at the TV dinners, see what you want.”

Billy made a face, both at the image of eating one himself, and the image of Harrington munching one down while Billy blew him, probably crouched awkwardly under a TV dinner tray table, while Harrington flipped channels and settled on Jeopardy. As soon as he got inside, he yanked Harrington in the first door on the left, which turned out to be the bathroom.

“How’d you know,” Harrington laughed, breathless.

“It’s like a boy scout thing,” Billy told him, pinning him behind the door. “I can always find a bathroom, and your cock. Always find your cock.”

Harrington snorted, going boneless with his mouth on Billy’s, and Billy yanked him tight and close, breathing in the smell of Harrington, and Harrington’s _ house,  _ where he’d never thought he’d be allowed even in secret. 

“God,” Harrington whispered. “Let’s eat. Gonna tire you out after,” he told Billy, who smirked, feeling his cock twitch in his pants. Harrington’s fingers were cold from outside, and Billy shivered as they brushed along his neck. 

“Anything you want,” Billy breathed, reminding himself to be on best behavior. In Harrington’s _ house. _

Suddenly, a door opened. Close, within feet of them, and the door against Billy’s back jerked, thumping against his shoulder blades. “Oh shit,” Harrington whispered, wide-eyed, and Billy stared back, biting his lips. Harrington groaned. “God _ damn  _ it, of course it was tonight. Shit, shit, shiiiiit—”

“Steeeeeve?” called a deep voice. “Steve? Steve! Where the hell is that kid. Steve!”

“It’s okay, pookums,” came a much younger-sounding, bubbly voice. “I’m sure he’s just busy.”

“Shiiiit,” Steve whispered, squeezing Billy’s wrists, and Billy tried to stay _ with  _ him, instead of wherever his brain went when he knew he’d fucked up. __

_ What if Harrington’s dad hits him,  _ he thought, clenching his fists. _ Finds out he’s fucking a queer, and hurts him, because Billy-The-Fag-Hargrove couldn’t keep his filthy fingers off a beautiful thing.  _ He tried to take a deep breath, and it shook. His sight had gone blurry, and he swallowed hard, trying to quench a weird whining noise in the back of his throat. __

_ What if I have to stop him,  _ he wondered darkly, feeling the weight of deep water in his lungs. _ Maybe that’s how this all blows up in my face—Harrington’s dad hits him, and I fucking end him, and Harrington calls the fucking police.  _ Billy opened his eyes again as something touched his face, blinking the tears back.

“Fuck, Hargrove, no,” Harrington whispered, grabbing his face. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re just gonna go out and make nice, okay?”

_ Pay attention,  _ Billy told himself, and nodded. Harrington’s voice sounded a long way away, and noisy, like he was listening to it from a seashell. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah. Fuck. What do you—what do you want me to say.” Harrington opened his mouth, squinting, and Billy pushed away, covering an uneven laugh. “He—he didn’t see anything,” he mumbled. “He didn’t. He didn’t—” 

“Babe—” Harrington said, leaning to see his face. “There wasn’t—there wasn’t anything to _ see,  _ you’re—”

“What would he have done?” Billy asked, grabbing Harrington’s wrist. “Walking in. Seeing—seeing his son—”

“Nothing, _ jesus,”  _ Harrington hissed back, pulling him into another tight squeeze. “Yelled? Maybe? Maybe yelled at me, _ maybe.” _

“Yelled what,” Billy asked into the shoulder of Harrington’s shirt. “He—he _ say shit  _ to you?”

“Jesus,” Harrington laughed, sighing. “Don’t _ fight  _ him.”

“I’ll kick his ass,” Billy growled, clenching his fingers in Steve’s shirt. “What’d he say?”

“You can’t go out and fight my dad,” Steve told him, shaking with snickers.

“I sure can,” Billy hissed, and Steve kissed his ear, then under it, grazing his teeth over Billy’s skin in the way that made him tremble, just where he liked it, where his hair covered the marks, but he could check his sanity in the mirror, and know Steve Harrington had held him close. 

Steve squeezed him tighter with a shaky sigh. “Why don’t you wait for me upstairs,” he whispered. “We can make out some more. I’ll get rid of them.”

“Steeeeeve!” shouted both voices again, this time in chorus. 

Billy took a slow, deep breath, and then stepped back and studied Harrington’s face, biting his lips. He whispered, “He’s not gonna be...pissed.”

“I mean, he’s getting there, they’ve been yelling a  _ while,”  _ Harrington shrugged. “Gonna have to tell ‘em I had diarrhea.” He flashed a grin as Billy snorted.

“But he’s not—” Billy said, realizing his nails were digging into Steve’s wrists, and pulling back. “If—if my—if my d-dad—if he—if he saw—”

“No, no,” Harrington whispered, with worried brown eyes, and yanked Billy’s face close to _ kiss  _ him, like Billy’s freakout was any kind of important with Harrington’s _ dad  _ in the house. “Shit, are you—are you okay? You...you aren’t drowning. Babe.”

“If he finds out,” Billy asked hoarsely, and Harrington squished Billy’s cheeks, looking ridiculously earnest. “What if your dad tells—”

“No. He won’t find out,” Harrington told him. “He’d just be mad I forgot this damn dinner, anyway, he brought _ her  _ over—anyway,” he dipped in like a toy bird to smack a quick kiss, missing Billy’s mouth and hitting his chin, “—I’m a _ ninja.  _ We won’t get caught.”

Billy nodded, trying not to think about what would have happened if they’d been kissing in the _ kitchen  _ when Harrington’s parents walked in, and one of them picked up the phone. “They—they saw my car,” he whispered. 

“I can just introduce you,” Steve said, frowning at him, “—but you can’t haul off and punch my dad.”

“No promises,” Billy said darkly.

Steve stared at him for a long second, then laughed, rubbing his face. “Okay. Okay, new plan. I’m gonna go scout, and when I wave, you’re gonna walk right across the entryway and up the stairs to my room. Okay?”

“I could go home,” Billy whispered, thinking of his dad seeing his hickeys, and _ knowing,  _ somehow. Sliding his fingers into Billy’s hair just the way Steve did, but grabbing it by the roots, and slamming his head through the glassed-in porch.

“No! No, stay,” Harrington leaned to kiss him again, and Billy remembered to breathe. “My room’s all the way at the end of the hall,” Harrington said, probably, and Billy nodded again, swallowing. 

_ Up the stairs, end of the hall,  _ Billy told himself. _ Up the stairs, end of the hall. _

“...okay,” Harrington said, poking his head out. “Okay…okay, go go go!”

Billy stared straight ahead, terrified there somehow wouldn’t _ be  _ stairs, or he’d be too dumb to find them, and Harrington’s dad—there were stairs, though. He walked up along the edges, hoping they wouldn’t creak, and kept his legs going along the hallway when they wanted to shake. 

He walked into a room covered in plaid, and the overwhelming smell of _ Harrington— _ dirty sneakers, and cologne, and the air freshener he used in his car—and glanced around the room to see only three places to hide. On inspection, Harrington’s closet was packed tight with boxes labeled things like “Little League trophies”, and there was _ way  _ too much crap under his bed to fit, so Billy crawled under the mound of blankets, hoping the pile concealed him as he squirmed his face under the pillow. 

He breathed Harrington, and waited.

Billy woke to the weird sensation of someone crawling in bed next to him. It was pitch black dark, and he felt the usual delay in his brain waking after a deep sleep, like a radio trying to get reception.

Harrington slid an arm around him, then tossed his leg over Billy’s, and Billy just laid there, feeling Harrington’s chest against him—relaxed and breathing—and the warm weight of his body. Now all they had to do was sneak him out, he thought, and he’d learned his lesson now, he’d never—

“God, I want you like this forever,” Harrington mumbled. “We could get an apartment, after graduation, y’know? Share rent. We could be _ roommates.”  _

Billy was still asleep, he realized, relaxing back into Harrington’s arms, and twisting his head up for a kiss. “Yeah, right,” he laughed, holding Harrington’s arm securely in place with both hands. “—‘minute, ‘m gonna wake up, ‘n you’ll throw me out. That was too close.” He wondered how deep the water was now, with as long as he’d let himself drift along after Harrington. He’d probably sink forever, his lungs collapsing in the dark, unless Harrington left him a life preserver. Tossed it at his head, he thought, snickering. “Leave me a life jacket,” he mumbled.

“...this the kinda dreams you have?” Harrington asked, honestly curious, and Billy sighed, leaning into the sound of his voice. “I had a dream last night I threw a basketball at your head,” said Harrington. “It changed direction, and then my mom’s divorce lawyer climbed out.”

“Shit,” Billy muttered against the pillow, the voices downstairs taking on new meaning. “Asshole.” 

“I’m—I’m _ sick  _ of this. I’m tired of screwing around in cars, and bathrooms at parties,” Harrington said, and even knowing it was coming, Billy’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, using the spare energy to shove several heavy cardboard boxes in his throat, and fill his eyes with enough tears to spill over. 

“Shit, yeah,” he rasped, laughing, and shoving Harrington off, climbing up to kneel on the mattress. “See, now I’m awake. You—you gonna clear the way so I can get out, or—”

“No! You stupid fuckhead, get back here,” Harrington grabbed him around the waist, pulling them both over. He swung his leg over Billy again, squeezing him hard. “I want to kiss you in a _ bed,  _ jesus. I’m sick of sneaking around.”

“...we’re in a bed,” Billy pointed out, not sure he was following the twists and turns of the conversation, but focusing on the word _ kissing.  _ It was definitely the most important part, he thought, as he let Harrington climb on top of him, weighing him down into the mattress. He jerked as he felt cold fingers against his cheeks suddenly, wiping his tears away, and then Harrington was kissing him again, finally, cupping his jaw, wet and open-mouthed, and tasting vaguely of fettuccine alfredo. 

“I gotta get you out of there,” Harrington whispered, and Billy flinched, taking a shaky breath.

“...you didn’t bring me any food,” he mumbled, pushing himself up towards Harrington’s mouth again, and Harrington snorted, laughing. 

“Sorry, they only just left. There’s probably another alfredo one—”

“...they left?” Billy asked, confused again.

“He just wants me to get on with her,” Harrington sighed, pulling at Billy’s curls, and letting them spring back into his face. Billy squirmed, batting at his hand as Harrington yanked the blankets over them, sliding his arms around Billy’s ribs and neck, and kissing whatever he found in the dark. “They don’t live here.”

“...he came to have dinner with you, and ate _ your  _ TV dinners?” Billy repeated, making sure, and batting Steve’s mouth away from kissing his eye. He grabbed the idiot’s face, kissing his _ mouth  _ until Harrington gasped for breath.

“Yep,” Harrington, whispered, and it felt like he shrugged. “They invited me for dinner, but it’d have been in the city,” he said against Billy’s lips, licking his way in again with a contented hum. He ran his thumb over the marks he’d left on Billy’s collarbone, and Billy’s cock jerked in his jeans as he squirmed under Steve Harrington’s lips and fingers. “Didn’t want to miss an afternoon with you,” he murmured against the wet, tender skin of Billy’s neck.

“Making out in your car,” Billy panted, snickering, and Steve kissed him again, until Billy stopped trying to argue.

“Making out with _ you,”  _ Steve whispered against his lips.

They snuck downstairs and microwaved more TV dinners, and then carried them all back upstairs, burning their fingers when the potholders slipped. 

“These suck,” Billy said, wrinkling his nose as he chewed salisbury steak that bounced between his teeth like a piece of tire. 

“Mmm,” Steve nodded. “‘N they’re kinda small.” He leaned to bump shoulders with Billy, pulling the covers over them again. “Two and a half is about right,” he hummed, “—but they’re not worth saving, really—”

Billy snorted, but accepted another garlicky cheese kiss. “Mmmn. I’ll finish your noodles, Harrington,” he whispered, and Harrington leaned into his shoulder, sniggering.

“Lotta good restaurants in Chicago,” Steve whispered, and Billy stopped chewing. “Lot of good concerts, too.” He threw an arm over Billy’s ribs, hugging him close, and whispering into the back of his shoulder. “Cyndi Lauper,” he hissed, snickering, and Billy elbowed him in the sternum. 

“...deep dish pizza,” Billy sighed, reaching up to feel the cool waves of Steve’s hair as he shook with laughter against Billy’s shoulder. “You want to go to _ Chicago  _ now?”

“It’s only a couple hours away,” Steve said, crawling more on top of him, so his weight pressed against Billy’s lungs.

He felt anchored.

“We could visit,” Steve whispered, tucking Billy’s hair behind his ear and leaning in so close Billy could feel the humidity of his hot breath. “Come back for a weekend sometimes, maybe, see Max or Dustin. Drive home to our apartment and sleep in the same bed.” 

Billy’s breath caught, and Steve blew out a shaky sigh. 

“Nobody’d have to know,” he said. “Roommates, just paying rent together. Takin’...showers together,” he whispered, pressing warm kisses under Billy’s ear, and around the back of his neck, as Billy pushed the food away, and sighed into his arms.

“This always feels like when I’d steal this old asshole’s rowboat,” Billy whispered back, laughing, “—and I’d paddle it out deep, and—and he’d yell, and—and he couldn’t _ reach me,  _ and it felt so—” his breath shuddered, and he groaned into his arms. 

Steve squeezed him, waiting, and kissed right up under where his hair fell on his neck.

“It was so good in the sun,” Billy panted, his voice shaking. “The water’d come through the boards on my feet. Kept my feet cool. I’d dump the bucket for bailing over my head sometimes, and—and nobody knew where I was, the shore looked tiny, I—I’d just sit out there and—and I’d think, maybe I won’t row back.”

Steve stilled, and then squeezed him tighter. 

“Fell asleep once, and it sank,” Billy whispered. “Woke up plunging down in the water, I thought maybe…” he cleared his throat, and felt Steve take a shuddery breath in his hair. “If y-you get me _ out.  _ Out where-where nobody can...find me,” Billy forced out, “—I don’t mind drowning.” Billy trailed off into a mumble, but Steve jerked on top of him, growling.

“No. No, I’m—I’m not a—a goddamn _ leaky rowboat,”  _ he said, and Billy snorted. “No, _ you  _ listen,” Steve growled, smacking his shoulder, then dropping his arms around Billy’s, and kissing his head. Billy snickered. “Shut up,” Steve hissed. “I—I’m a _ whitewater raft,  _ okay, fuckhead? I—I’ve got ropes you can grab, f’I hit a _ waterfall  _ I’ll just _ bob back up—” _

“Yeah, I can feel that,” Billy laughed, shifting under the hard line pressing into his ass.

“No. No, I—shut _ up,  _ dickface. The _ army  _ uses rafts, okay, rafts get _ shot  _ and you can still patch ‘em with duct tape, no _ drowning.  _ With me you’re safe, _ okay.  _ You’re _ safe,  _ you can float—”

Billy lay under his weight, smiling, while his eyes stung and his throat ached like he’d been coughing up seawater.

“Yeah, then,” he whispered, shrugging back, feeling the moronic buoyancy of being a kid, when he’d told the cute boy in the playground he was going to get so good at surfing they’d make him president. His dreams had always been pretty dumb. “Y-yeah. Shit. We can, uh, we can buy some cookbooks.”

“You...you want to?” Harrington asked, freezing half on Billy’s side, squishing his bladder.

“Sit on me or don’t,” Billy growled. “And yeah. Fuck it, I’m in. Until you get a better offer.”

“...back at you,” Harrington said, squeezing him softly, in the darkness under the blankets. 

It sounded like he was smiling.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Thank you so much for wandering in! Lemme know if you liked my story--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Thanks so, so much! XD**  
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